I admire the dress I was supposed to wear. It’s pink, the palest blush pink I’ve ever seen. I’ve never been a fan of pink; pink in any shade, from shell to fuschia. Nor have I ever been a fan of tulle and ruffles.This dress is the blushiest pink tulle with rose and cosmos embroidered in the most delicate pink and silver silk thread. And it’s a bridesmaid’s dress. That’s right, a bridesmaid’s dress. Where can I wear it now? Grocery shopping? Breakfast at Pettigrew Terrace Diner? To my job as a Receptionist at Beaver Creek Auto Insurance? No. I can never wear it. I’ll let it hang in my closet. The hope of wearing it someday might keep me from eating my beloved chicken and cheese enchiladas. So, moving on.

********

My friend, Natalie called off her wedding the night before it was supposed to take place. She called me, then she called her mother. Mom, she said. The wedding is off. I’m moving to French Polynesia with my electrician, Justin. Justin Belliveau. We graduated together. 1995. Remember him, Mom? We went out twice. Once to a movie, and once to the Spring Dance. He broke up with me because I wouldn’t go all the way. Well, now I go all the way, and we’re in love. I’m sorry, Mom. Can you cancel everything?  Find something to do with all the pink stuff? The flowers, my gown, the bridesmaids’ gifts? Everything? I called Nicholas myself, so you don’t have to do that. I thought I should at least do that much. Thanks. I’ll call when we get to Tahiti. Bye. Kiss kiss. We’ll send you plane tickets to visit us over the holidays!

********

And that was that. I sigh; hang up the dress. I cut myself a good sized slice of the crescent moon cake I made. I made it to celebrate the fact that I’m single again, and because the waning crescent is my favorite phase of the moon. It’s chocolate with marshmallow frosting and pink sprinkles. The cake, not the waning crescent moon. Though I would so enjoy a moon that drips with chocolate ganache and has sprinkles. Anyway, I broke up with my ex, Gerard, the day after Natalie cancelled her nuptials. We were both bored. It was one of those things that was over before it was technically over. I only cried a little. More because it was a let down. A good night’s sleep is all it took to feel better. First thing I decided is that I’ll take a break from shaving for awhile. Pits and all. We women are too tied to all that shaving and plucking anyhow. And I might decide to not do it even when I meet someone new. So there. I smile to myself and invite my black kitty, Zorro up to the couch beside me. He’s seven years old; a senior cat, but he can still leap high with the best of them.

********

I watch a video of The London Symphony Orchestra playing Camille Saint Saens’s The Bacchanale, from his opera, Samson and Delilah. It’s my very favorite piece of music. Both Zorro and I drift away to sleep. I dream a beautiful dream.

********

At first absolutely everything is pink. It’s a nightmare. Like the John D. MacDonald novel, Nightmare In Pink. No other color. How many shades of pink are there? But then, there’s no pink. Everything is black and white. An old noir movie. Much better. It’s as if I’m Lauren Bacall, and my current crush, Bacchus Bonneville is Humphrey Bogart. We’re in a tropical place, but it’s not Key Largo. Is it Tahiti? Yes, I think it is. Bacchus and I are visiting Natalie and Justin in their new home. It’s 1940, and Natalie and I are classy dames in vivid red lipstick and black dresses. Okay, that’s quite sexist, but it’s a dream, and I can’t help it. There are many martinis, and there’s a murder. No, two murders. Okay, I said it was a beautiful dream. It’s not, but it is an adventurous, exciting dream. And there’s a figurine. It’s not a Maltese Falcon, but a one foot tall ceramic chickadee. It’s adorable, but also supposedly deadly, and someone’s killing for it. I know how to shoot a gun. (When I’m awake, I have no idea how to shoot a gun.) The chickadee contains, again, supposedly, a cache of uncut rubies. In the end, it turns out the butler did it. (I didn’t say it’s a well written dream, did I?) The butler committed both murders and stole the chickadee for nothing. And smashed it. Again, for nothing. All it contained was a little red velvet sack of red plastic beads. Also in the end, red was the only color in the movie/dream.

********

When I wake up, I decide to sell the pink dress on Greg’s List. I’ll buy a black velvet gown and a new  tube of passion red lipstick. I’ve hitherto only worn pale pink. But black is more fun. I swear I see Zorro wink at me. I’ve always known he can read minds.

FINIS

Why can’t Kristen write? Why can’t she finish a book?

The words have either escaped her, or they are well hidden. Punctuation, the same.

Monday morning, some adverbs were rinsed down the drain when she scraped leftover egg yolk from her plate. They were adverbs, but still. Used sparingly in a story, they work well.

On Wednesday, a half a dozen adjectives were lost in a sock. Where did they go? Down the black hole in the dryer with who knows how many other socks and adjectives. No more detective with the tanned body; the muscular biceps, the firm gluteous maximus. He was her favorite character in a short story she’d started. And shy Suzette lost her lover.

And the cozy mystery she started to read on Saturday. She couldn’t finish it. All the descriptions of the desserts made her drool. And there went all the commas in her story. Saliva all over her pillow. (She was reading in bed.) Really, there were too many commas anyway, but that’s beside the point, right?

Kristen started reading an historical novel Thursday morning with her coffee and Danish. But, she became uncomfortable in the main character’s corset. (Kristen’s imagination is extreme. She really places herself in the story.) Now she knows when she writes her own novel, to set it in a different time. Maybe in the late 1960s? Mini skirts are very freeing, and all those vivid designs and colors. (If they don’t get lost also.)

That same Thursday, in the afternoon, she changed from her orange stilettos to her much more comfy red sneakers. When she took off the heels, the two semicolons, (one in each shoe,) jumped out and high tailed it down the hall, and hopped into her ficas tree. She can’t find them in the foliage. She never knew semicolons wear camo.

Kristen’s two favorite character names, Sylvia and Mortimer rebelled. Not enough love scenes for them in her novella. Secondary characters, Stephanie and Dillon get way more. How is that fair? What’s up with that? They absconded to the garden somewhere. Are they in the lupine? Maybe in the azaleas? Kristen’s too lazy to look. She’ll just have to come up with other names. Perhaps Gertrude and Gavin. Or could Gs be missing in action too? They only want roles in sci-fi?

Friday, Kristen put out a casting call for a sexy plumber type, (what that is, exactly, she’s not sure. She doesn’t want to be sexist.) All she asks is that they don’t show their cracks when they bend over to look under the sink. Alas, no one showed up. Her imagination was bereft. Maybe the hopefuls heard she had cabbage, beet, and broccoli salad for lunch?

One of Kristen’s favorite words is eviscerate. She found it in her chocolate stash on Tuesday. But what should she eviscerate in her poem? It’s a love sonnet. What is eviscerated in a love poem? That’s just a depressing thought.

There are many reasons why Kristen is unable to find the words, for either reading or writing. Or are they merely excuses? Likely the latter.

Maybe the words are in a little cabin on the coast, or a little motel in the sticks? Maybe she just needs to rent a room. Somewhere quiet, out of the way. Maybe take her vintage typewriter that’s missing three letters. Well, they’re not missing, just worn off, faded. Maybe that’s a little progress? Just faded, not gone?  Kristen’s hopeful.

There’s a little motel named Bates in a town called Waterville down the coast a piece. Bates. This must mean something. She’ll lock the bathroom door when she takes a shower. Maybe put a chair under the knob. Kristen rents room 5 for two days and nights. Fifty dollars a night. Cash only. According to the receptionist, the room is decorated in burnt umber and avocado green. She thinks maybe this atmosphere will spur her imagination. She’ll set her story in 1975. She’ll wear her polyester blouse, bell bottom jeans, part her hair in the middle. And she won’t forget two packs of Marlboros and a lot of Boone’s Farm Wild Irish Rose. Do they still make Wild Irish Rose?  If not, some cheap whisky. She’ll rent a Gran Torino if she can find one, or a 70s VW Beetle. Wish Kristen luck!